For Queen and Country
by helio5igma
Summary: Sherlock is getting knighted and refuses to dress up. Capt. John Hamish Watson decides to convince him otherwise. Established relationship JohnLock SLASH, rated for scenes of a sexual nature. One-shot.


Sherlock had to admit that the image of the army doctor in his military dress was striking. The doctor's natural style of clothing - frumpy jumpers and bland trousers - were entirely unflattering and made it difficult for even the world's only consulting detective to deduce the musculature of John's body. His military dress, on the other hand, was form-fitting and trim, tailored to create of John Watson an intimidating and imposing figure, and one that brought an inexplicable quickening to Sherlock's pulse and a frustrating tightening in his trousers.

"That's entirely unnecessary," Sherlock said, raising his newspaper a fraction of an inch to cover the look of concentration on his face. He had finished dressing and preparing half an hour ago at least, but the doctor had insisted upon preening and ironing and combing his hair, of all things.

"It's your _knighthood_, Sherlock, of course it's necessary! Aren't you going to put on anything, I don't know, special?"

"If you like, I could fetch the sheet," he retorted, and took a particular delight in the way John's face flushed despite his effort at a military demeanor.

"No, you're not - no," said John definitively, and there was a pause that made Sherlock lower his paper guard and steal a glance at the other man. The detective immediately cursed himself for John's innate ability to lower his observational skills by yards, as he had failed to notice John's movement across the room. Neither had he quite understood the mischief that had crept into his flat mate's eyes, and when the doctor leaned over him, all but in his lap, his arms braced against the arm rests of the detective's chair, Sherlock was struck with the sudden realization that he was in a bit of a pickle. John had attempted to glare Sherlock into submission in similar fashion before and failed, so the detective was much surprised when he found himself struck speechless.

"Sherlock Holmes, you _will_ change into something more appropriate or I shall _strip_ you down and do it _for_ you," growled the soldier, and Sherlock had to swallow to prevent himself from asphyxiating.

He raised a deliberate and, he hoped, infuriatingly defiant eyebrow at John.

"No? Fine."

All at once he found himself thrown against the floor, strong hands ripping off his jacket - and sending buttons flying, he observed with a frown - and tossing it aside despite Sherlock's protests and wriggling.

"Be _careful_!" complained the detective, reaching towards John's hands and being awarded with stinging swats for his efforts. When had John gotten his hands on the riding crop?

"You didn't listen, did you? So don't you complain. And you know what this is, do you, Sherlock?" He felt John slide the tightly-bound leather against the side of his neck, making him shiver. "It's what you're going to get if you don't stay put and let me work. Now _stay_."

The authoritative tone John was using was enough to make him pause, at the very least, in his struggles. He couldn't deny the biological reaction John was inspiring in him, and when the white-gloved hands yanked the trousers from his hips the pants underneath came with, Sherlock smirked at the pregnant pause which he was sure Captain John Watson was using to take in the afforded view of bare bottomed, stiff-membered detective. For a disappointing moment Sherlock thought he had broken John's commanding attitude with the simple display of his naked nethers. He was glad he was mistaken.

"On all fours. Now," commanded the soldier, and biting his lip the detective obliged. "You will not speak unless spoken to. And God help you if you make a mess of the floor."

The detective knew, to some extent, that John was giving the order to bite his tongue to save himself the snide comments that Sherlock had just behind his teeth, but he was excited by it all the same. It was so rare for John to take command, as quiet and kind and timid as he usually was, and it was a refreshing and intriguing change in the doctor's character. Sherlock waited, eyes trained on the ground until he saw John's shadow hovering over him, looked up to see the ruffling of the soldier's trousers as he undid the clasps and revealed just how much this little exercise pleased him. The thick leather loop of the riding crop tucked under his chin and lifted it, and Sherlock felt a warm knot of arousal in his gut when he saw John looking down at him. The soldier's eyes were sharp and focused, his movements more certain, even, than when John was following him across the London rooftops.

He made a mental note to put John into this mood more often.

"Go on. Take it," John commanded, and Sherlock came up on his knees with a mischief of his own. His slid his tongue along the base of it, making it twitch against his lips, his hand moving to massage at the firm skin of the perineum behind John's sack. The soldier let out a breath, leaned into the mouth that waited for him - but Sherlock would not afford him that pleasure just yet. The tongue lapped around him, tracing wet trails about the shaft, under the flare of the crown, against the slit at its tip. The soldier was breathless, rocking, the body before Sherlock tensed and quivering.

"God for _England_, Sherlock, stop _teasing_ me!"

But the detective persisted. He lapped and licked, the finger working its way steadily upward until it ran a ring around the puckered hole of John's entrance. Then all at once John was fisting his hair and filling his mouth, his cock firm and throbbing. He gagged once - Sherlock was still unused to this bit, his throat yet unpracticed despite the numerous times he and John found themselves in compromising situations - but managed to do it no more than that, even with John rocking into him the way he was.

"Good, _faster_, like that - "

Sherlock only hummed in reply, sending vibrations up and down the army doctor's heated member and making him moan. Sherlock loved to hear John's voice. It made him squirm, made the already stiff rod between his legs twitch in anticipation. John was quickly devolving into incoherent, gutteral noises, but he didn't hesitate to remind Sherlock who was in control of the situation. He felt a tug on his hair and a wicked sting across his right arse cheek and let out a wild groan against John's flesh.

"You're gorgeous like this, Sherlock," said John in a whisper, and he swatted him again, making the detective jerk forward and take the cock in deeper.

"Oh _Christ_," hissed John, and he let Sherlock go a bit longer before pulling him off by the hair and sending him tumbling to the floor on his back. The detective's eyes stung from the sharp jerk of his curls and for a moment there was apology in John's face, but it faded to a smile when he saw Sherlock's flushed cheeks and pleasure-opened mouth.

"Like that, do you? Well, you're going to love it when I ram you," growled the soldier, the gruff voice brushing against Sherlock's ear as John leaned down over him, hands pouring over his body, lips and teeth roving over his neck. The detective was lost in the blissful sensations, his body arching into John's touch, bare cock rubbing against John's hip. Sherlock moaned when John disappeared, knowing without looking that when he returned it was with a lubed member, and the slick fingers rubbing around his entrance and slipping inside were preparing him for something more satisfying.

"I want you inside me," breathed Sherlock, his voice so low John could feel it rumble in the air. There was a pause, an infuriating pause and Sherlock felt the fingers move, sliding in and out mercilessly slowly, making the slender brunette squirm in frustration.

"Then beg for it," commanded the soldier against his ear, and Sherlock let out a shuddering breath. _I've never begged for mercy in my life_, he recalled, and the thought was dashed to bits by the grip of John's hand against his cock, applying so little pressure, the friction just barely there, not enough, so _teasing_ -

"Please," came the breath from his lips.

"Louder."

"Please, John - "

The soldier cracked a wicked grin and leaned in, giving Sherlock's cock one good stroke and slipping a third finger into him.

"Please, _Captain_," he hissed, and Sherlock corrected himself.

"Please, Captain Watson!"

Unable to hold himself back in the face of a begging detective, John withdrew his fingers and replaced them with his own throbbing cock, sliding into Sherlock with a grunt and making the detective cry out and clutch the fabric of his sleeves. The slick fingers wrapped around Sherlock's shaft and began pumping, John's doctor's hands easily coordinating with the thrusting rhythm of his hips.

"John - _oh!" _

John drilled him into the floor and they were crying out, screaming each others names in the midst of curses and moans, and when John brushed over his prostate Sherlock's body jerked, and John took the moment to pull him into his lap and have the detective ride him. Tightened muscles sucked the army doctor in deeper, and Sherlock threw his head back, gasping into the heated air. But Sherlock Holmes was never one to completely disregard reason, and when he saw the position John had put them in he leaned in to his ear and hissed a concerned warning.

"John - your jacket…"

John attempted words, but failed when he felt the pulse of Sherlock around him. He merely growled, stripped off the dark military jacket and tossed it aside, the shirt underneath following suit. Sherlock bit his lip as his eyes lit upon John's bare chest, and he ran to places in his mind palace dedicated to the contours of his muscles and the sensitive areas of his skin. His mouth and hands found them, making John shudder under his touch - he was coming close, Sherlock could feel it in the rigidity of his body, observe it in the expression on his face: brows knit, eyes rolled, mouth formed in a near-perfect O.

"God, I'm going to fill you," he groaned, face burying itself into the detective's slender neck.

Sherlock let out a shuddering gasp in response.

They were moving, sinuous bodies grinding together on the floor, Sherlock's curls slicking with sweat from the exertion. The muscles on his legs stood out, firm and defined, and he marveled at the look of adoration on John's face as his eyes drank in the body of the slender brunette, bobbing and rocking atop him. Feeling himself reach his climax he pulled John into a kiss and the doctor met his lips with a hunger and a passion that took him by surprise, the searching tongue and possessive lips sending a jolt through Sherlock that shot sticky whiteness between them. Simultaneously the doctor came into him, the heat from the spurt of fluids making Sherlock tense and shiver on the doctor's lap.

It was some time before Sherlock noticed the mess he'd made of John's chest, little strings and splotches of off-white standing out against the warm skin.

"That was… ah… good," managed the detective, now rather considering how much value there was in the mid-morning nap, and how little he had actually intended to accept the knighthood.

"Lord, I should have them knight you every Saturday," murmured John, a breathy giggle pressing against Sherlock's shoulder.

"For England, John?"

"For England and Her majesty, Sherlock."


End file.
